Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

LEANING ON HIS elbows at the window of his room, Mauro was drinking in the unfamiliar landscape he was seeing for the first time. The Beira Rio Hotel stood beside the river, on the short strip of old structures bordering the bank at that point. From his lookout post the student could see the Pantanal marshes stretching out forever to the east. Twittering flocks of unfamiliar birds flew across a sky that was cloudless, but of a hazy blue. The silty and perfectly smooth water of the Rio Paraguay looked like a yellowing mirror, tainted in places with rust or suspicious patches of mold. It was difficult to believe that this loop of still water could be part of the great river by which the lumberjacks sent their huge rafts of timber down to Buenos Aires or Montevideo. Floating as if by some miracle were small craft made up of bits and pieces, an old two-decker gunboat and the patrol boat of the river police, all moored to trees or worm-eaten posts driven into the bank. Long aluminum barges turned over on the grass among dugout canoes and ropes threw off a dazzling light.

Like every geology student, Mauro had taken part in numerous field studies during his course but this was the first time he was part of a real research project, and, what is more, with the cream of the university. Dietlev Walde had become famous two years ago by discovering, together with Professor Leonardos and other German geologists, an unexpected fossil in a Cormubá quarry: a polyp comparable to Stephanocyphus , which had already been identified in certain regions of the world, but distinguished from it by important structural differences, notably by the presence of secondary polyps. After analyses carried out by various specialists — of whom Elaine von Wogau was one — on the samples brought back to Brazilia, it had been dated back to 600 million years ago and they had shown that the fossil belonged to a primitive branch in the evolution of the Scyphozoa : it was not only the first Pre-Cambrian fossil ever to be found in South America but also one of the most archaic. Named Corumbella wernerii, hahn, hahn, leonardos & walde , it immediately gave Dietlev and his team an international reputation.

The previous year Dietlev had returned to the Mato Grosso to collect further samples. The rumor having gotten around that there was a mad German who was looking for rocks with impressions and was prepared to give a good price for them, a fisherman had brought him a stone he had picked up by chance high in the north of the Pantanal. Analysis had confirmed that it was a Pre-Cambrian fossil that predated the Corumbella and, what was even better, of an echinoderm that had never been found before, not even in the rich deposits of the Ediacara Hills in Australia! This had led to the idea of the expedition, which promised excellent results.

If the prospect of having their name associated with an animal species gets most scientists worked up, it had turned Milton into a veritable wild beast: obsessed with the idea of promotion, he had intrigued to take the place of Othon Leonardos on this expedition. Like Dietlev and Elaine, Mauro despised him for this attitude, unworthy of a true scientist, but his influence was such that one had to put up with him or give up the very idea of working at the university.

After all, the only thing that was really important was to advance our knowledge of the world. This fossil, coming in a direct line from “primordial fauna” promised a fantastic advance in our understanding of our origins and Mauro too was seething with impatience — why be ashamed of it? — to be part of this triumph.

Not counting the fact that it would shut his father up, shut him up for good, he hoped.

At the agreed time, the four of them met on the terrace on the top floor of the hotel. Dietlev went over their objectives again and the role each would play on the expedition. From the logistical point of view everything had gone as planned apart from the problem of obtaining a supply of petrol for the boat. He’d only managed to get half the necessary fuel, but the problem was solvable if they would accept a slight additional cost. Milton having told them that they had sufficient funds to buy up all the reserves of Corumbá, they enjoyed an untroubled lunch.

Toward three Dietlev took them to the quarry so that they could familiarize themselves with the geological layers associated with Corumbella wernerii and, if possible, collect further samples. After having shown them the thin stratum of gray-green clay on which they were to concentrate their efforts, he left them, saying he would see them at the Ester at the end of the afternoon.

Before he got into the taxi, he turned around and saw Elaine and Mauro on their knees, using their hammers on the slope. Hands in his pockets, panama pulled well down over his ears, Milton was watching them work in the white dust.

WHEN DIETLEV ENTERED the Ester, the café-restaurant where he had arranged to meet the man who represented his last opportunity of finding a boat, the owner dropped his brush to greet him with a great show of friendship. “ Holà, amigo ,” he said, embracing Dietlev, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. What have you been doing all this time?”

“Hi, Herman,” Dietlev said, without a reply to a question that didn’t expect one, “still painting, then?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m just giving these old walls a bit of decoration, but this time it’s going to be a portrait. Look what I unearthed,” he said, picking up a postcard that was lying on the table: “Otto Eduard Leopold von Bismarck. Not bad, eh? I’m just making a copy of it, it’s going to be fantastic!”

Dietlev turned toward the large niche where Herman had started to color in an amateurish sketch of the photo. “Indeed …” he said. He felt ill at ease: as always at some point this individual would suddenly make him feel violently sick. Herman Petersen spoke German and behaved like a German but he was … Bolivian. If one expressed surprise, he would produce the remnants of a passport to prove it. Having married an obese mulatto, who was horribly marked with smallpox (he can’t have found her disgusting since he had given her three kids), he claimed to have Brazilian nationality as well. When he was drunk, which happened every day after a certain time in the evening, he would become voluble and go on about his nostalgia for order and even his sympathy for the great Reich . “True, he overdid it toward the end,” he would say, without ever mentioning Hitler by name, “but all the same! The ideas are still there and they weren’t all bad, far from it, believe me!” The only information Dietlev had been able to extract from him during his two previous visits to Corumbá was that Petersen had arrived in Bolivia in 1945, after the defeat—“But I was just a simple soldier, a little fish, a tiny little fish.”

“OK,” said Herman, “what can I offer you to celebrate your return? I’ve got a new draft beer, a real treat.”

“Later,” said Dietlev seeing the man he was waiting for enter the bar. “I’ve got some urgent business with this guy.”

“No problem, amigo , make yourself at home.”

The Brazilian approached Dietlev with a false air of humility, an ominous sign. “ Senhor Walde,” he said, avoiding his eye, “it’s impossible, absolutely impossible. I would have liked to take you, but I can’t risk losing my boat, as I’m sure you’ll understand. You can’t get past there, they shoot you like rabbits. No one will take you, you can be sure of that.”

Dietlev felt his face flush with anger. “I’ll double the price! Think carefully: two hundred thousand cruzeiros!”

The Brazilian squirmed, as if electrified by the immensity of the sum, then his eye suddenly fixed on something behind Dietlev’s back. Instinctively he turned around; Petersen was calmly drying a beer glass, his head bowed over the towel.